The Tower
by Catch 23
Summary: In the middle of the desert there stands a tower, surrounded by legends of a restless evil. But Seth is too old for ghost stories. Nevertheless, when the Pharaoh is ensnared by its vengeful spirits, his rescue falls to the reluctant and cynical priest...
1. Chapter 1

The Howling Tower

Summary: Atem's rather hopeless attempt to get Seth to maybe hate him just a tiny bit less lands him in serious trouble, and now his reluctant and neurotic priest must face untrustworthy guides, falling masonry, and vengeful ghosts to bail him out.

Author's notes: The plot is taken from the awesome Fritz Leiber story of the same name. Italics are thought for those that couldn't work it out themselves.

Warning: If you find Atem/Seto, that's your own sick mind. A sword is a sword and not a double entendre.

Disclaimer: Not my characters or my plot. I'm just responsible for the glorious amalgamation of the two.

"Isn't it great to get away from the court? All those petty squabbles and pathetic intrigues really get me down," Atem proclaimed. Seth, who enjoyed and had personally orchestrated the majority of them, said nothing. "But being out here in the majesty of nature, it just takes all my troubles away," he continued. "Don't you just feel…?"

_Bored? Hot? Thirsty? Bored?_

"…inspired?"

"Yes, oh light of the eastern sky, a massive expanse of sand never fails to fill me with wonder."

Atem caught the sarcasm and gave the priest a dirty look, but didn't rise to the bait. Seth sighed. It had only been a few hours, and already his natural offensiveness had been dulled. But what could he do? It was all very well if the pharaoh wanted to go traipsing off into the wilderness for reasons beyond the understanding of a humble priest, but why did he insist on bringing Seth with him? Sure, he said it was to pay a visit to a major trading town in the north, whose tributes had been oddly small of late, but that was something a minor official could deal with. It didn't require a personal visit from the pharaoh. And there was the matter of the missing retinue. One priest and a local guide was hardly befitting of the ruler of all of Egypt. All in all it was rather suspicious.

He guessed it was supposed to be some kind of bonding thing. The pharaoh had always been vaguely disappointed that they hadn't hit it off. Unsurprising really, considering Seth always made a pointed effort to be as unpleasant as possible to him. The fact that the idiot thought he could actually do something about it just showed how badly he failed to grasp Seth's view of the world i.e. he hated it. Seth would grudgingly tolerate his orders, and wouldn't openly undermine him, because if he didn't, he would probably be tortured to death. But that was the extent of their relationship, and Seth simply couldn't grasp why the pharaoh cared whether his underlings liked him or not. Perhaps he thought it would make a rebellion less likely or something. Anyway, speculation on the cause was irrelevant now. They were here, in the desert with what was probably an insufficient supply of water, and a decidedly untrustworthy guide.

The next few hours were spent in awkward silence, as they rode single file Atem trying to think of something to say, Seth sulking, and the guide slouching wearily in his saddle, even less talkative that the taciturn priest.

By nightfall, Seth had resigned himself to an unpleasant and tedious week of travel, but he hadn't expected danger until the howling began.

It started as soon as the sun sank bellow the horizon, a keening, mournful wail that raised the hairs on the back of the neck, and sent Seth scrabbling for his sword.

"What the hell is that?" He hissed.

"Calm down, Seth. It's probably just jackals."

"…That doesn't sound like any jackal I've ever heard. You said you'd travelled this way often," he said, turning to the guide. "You must know this country well…"

The guide, a lanky, scrawny man with a grizzled beard and a pinched, leathery face, nodded jerkily. "I've hear it before, but never so loud, and not this time of year…"

"What's making it?"

"There's a ruined tower not far from here. The howling is louder near there. They say men hear it and vanish. They say it calls to you in your dreams. Men follow it and they do not return…"

"But what's making it?" Seth insisted.

The man started to tremble and turned away. Seth opened his mouth to demand a reply, but Atem shook his head, forcing Seth to back down.

"No matter. Whatever animal it is, I doubt it will come near our fire," Atem said, with forced cheerfulness.

Seth felt none of the same conviction, however, and resigned himself to a miserable night keeping watch. Atem eventually agreed that that was sensible, but said that they should each take a shift. Seth pointed out that part of the reason he planed to stay awake was to keep an eye on the guide, and letting the man watch himself was frankly rather stupid. Atem berated him for being so untrusting, and ordered him to go to sleep. And no, not with his sword in his hand. Someone could get hurt. Seth told him that was the point of a sword. Atem told him to shut up and put it away. Seth said that the sword was like a comfort blanket for him and he couldn't sleep without it. Atem threw a rock at him and stormed off.

_Still got it_, Seth thought smugly as he dozed off.

In the morning, the guide was gone.

"Don't even think it, Seth."

"Well I did."

"Seriously, if you say 'I told you so,' I will have you beheaded."

"Well, at least he didn't slit our throats before he left. So now what? Should we head back, divine lord of the Nile?"

Atem looked ready to hit him. Seth was impressed at the man's self control. If he'd been Atem, then he would have broken his (Seth's) nose last night.

"We aren't turning back," Atem snarled.

"As you command, oh great…shiny…spangley one." Seth muttered, running out of patronising names. "But I don't know this area well, and I'm not sure I can guide us through…"

"I'm sure I can find the way." Atem stalked off.

"….Uh, radiant lord of the sun, north is thataway," Seth said, trying very hard not to smirk. He very nearly succeeded.

"Shove it, Seth."

The howling started even earlier that night, and seemed to surround them. A hopeless wail, filled with grief and anger, fear and hate. Seth shivered, and this time Atem did not object when he drew his sword and laid it across his lap.

Before they set up camp, he had climbed to the top of the nearest dune, and surveyed the surrounding land. Nothing but sand as far as the eye could see, except for to the west, a black shadow silhouetted against the setting sun. Not a tree, for nothing grew in this land. It was manmade. The tower the guide had spoken of? Seth was not superstitious, in fact, for a man living in a world governed by magic and gods, he was positively a sceptic, but there was something about that shadow that made his skin crawl.

He and Atem agreed to take turns keeping watch, Atem taking the first half of the night, Seth the second, but when the first rays of light appeared in the east, Seth woke, ready to berate Atem for letting him sleep all night, only to find the campsite empty, but for their horses.

And Atem's tracks, leading in the direction of the tower.

_Shit._

To be continued

What's happened to Atem? What's the deal with the howling and the creepy tower? Will our hero's ever reconcile? Well, I wouldn't count on the last one…


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_I am going to kill him,_ Seth thought as he rode. _I am going to find him, save him from whatever is trying to steal his soul, or eat his face, or whatever, and then I am going to kill him. Slowly and painfully. _

The irony of the situation was not lost on him, and only served to annoy him even more. Even more infuriating than that was the realisation that he was scared. He. Was. Scared. Not that something had happened to the wanker with the pendant. No, he was scared of the tower. Of a fucking piece of architecture.

He had lived a short yet excessively violent and dangerous life, yet he had never felt this. An oppressive, primal feeling of terror, that grew greater as he neared the tower. Seth was not an anthropologist nor a writer of poor fan fiction, and so would not have described it like this, but it was a feeling akin to what primitive men, huddled round their campfires would have felt as they saw, just out of the ring of light, the glow of flames reflected in predatory eyes, heard the growl rising, and realised, with a sick certainty, that they did not have enough fuel to last the night. A helpless knowledge that something very bad was going on and there was nothing he could do about it. A less courageous (or less bloody-mindedly stubborn) man would have been cowed. Seth just glared and urged his horse into a gallop.

_Right,_ he decided. _Once I've killed/saved the pharaoh, that tower is next. _He wasn't sure if it was possible to kill a bunch of rocks stuck together, but he would find a way. You could count on it.

Without warning, the howling began again. His horse shied and stopped dead, refusing to go on for all his coaxing, yelling and swearing. He gave up and left it, running as fast as the soft sand would allow. It was only mid afternoon, and the sound's premature recurrence did not bode well for Atem.

As he drew closer, it became clear that the tower was a ruin, barely standing. It was constructed of weathered grey stones, roughly hewn into shape. The dilapidated appearance only served to add to his feeling of foreboding.

He wished there was more cover; approaching a hostile stronghold like this went against all his training, and would make him an easy target for archers, but what choice did he have? He prayed his grey travelling cloak would provide at least a little camouflage. There were some ruined outbuildings, and he paused in their shelter, taking stock of his surroundings. If the howling was caused by a pack of hounds, as he was hoping (the alternatives were too bizarre to contemplate), he did not want to have to fight them in the open.

The tower was not as tall as he had first assumed, only four or five stories. The windows were irregularly spaced, giving no clear indication as to the internal layout. Only the top half was badly damaged, the stones of the battlements disarrayed and unstable. The dark and unguarded opening that was the doorway was almost facing him.

The sensible thing to do would be to sprint for the door and get out of the open as quickly as possible. Once inside, he was sure he could easily kill the inhabitants; in a dilapidated tower in the middle of nowhere, the number and skill of the men defending it would not be great.

_And what makes you think this place is defended by men?_

He refused to even consider the possibility. But nevertheless, he found himself unable to make the dash for the doorway. Instead, while every instinct he had screamed at him, he found himself slowly walking towards the doorway. The monotonous sound of the howling had a hypnotic quality, and everything felt surreal and dreamlike.

The faint grating of stone would not have been enough warning, for he was almost in a trance. Perhaps the sudden change in the quality of light was what spurred him into action. Whatever it was, Seth responded with catlike rapidity, throwing himself through the doorway, just as the lump of rock smashed into the ground where he had been standing.

The impact of the stone threw him to the ground. Shaken, he turned to examine the boulder. It had once been part of the battlements. The edges had been freshly chiselled. In the darkness, Seth grinned. Dropping rocks was such an obvious, human thing to do. The nightmare creatures that had populated this place in his imagination were dispelled in an instant. Humans he could deal with. Humans he could kill.

It was only then that he realised that the howling had stopped. The silence was even worse.

Sword in hand, he crept up the staircase and, on the first level, he found Atem. And the guide – after a fashion.

The room was one of the filthiest he had ever seen. Trash covered every surface, ancient and valuable looking manuscripts buried under half eaten plates of food, yet there seemed to be a strange order to its placement, inspired by some strange and alien logic. The desiccated corpses of birds and small mammals hung from the ceiling.

Atem was lying, unmoving, on a bed in the corner of the room. He offered no response when Seth shook him and whispered his name, nor when he grabbed him and yelled it. He was pale and his breathing and pulse were unnaturally slow. Seth guessed he had been drugged. Oddly, his limbs and throat had been wrapped in linen bandages. They were clearly not bonds, and when he looked underneath there was no sign of any wounds. Seth got the feeling that Atem was not actually there, and it disturbed him.

Seth gave up trying to rouse the unresponsive pharaoh and turned to explore the rest of the room. Behind a desk, buried under a pile of scrolls, he found the guide. He was wrapped in bandages in the same way as Atem, but his were stiff and stained with blood and he was plainly dead.

As he stood there, searching for an explanation, he heard heavy deliberate steps on the stairs leading to the next floor, and rasping, laboured breathing. He ducked down behind a table, staring fixedly at the staircase.

An ancient, withered man appeared around the bend in the stairs, dressed in the rags of what had once been fine clothes. He was almost bald, with wisps of lank hair hanging in rattails around his large ears.

He offered no response when Seth leapt to his feet and pressed his sword against the old man's throat. He just stared at the boy with blank incomprehension.

"Who are you, old man?" Seth hissed. "What have you done to them?"

"…No…you are dead…" The old man mumbled. "You cannot be here. I killed you. Why else would I have kept that boulder so cunningly poised, so that the slightest touch would send it over? I saw the stone fall. I saw you under it. You could not have escaped…"

"And yet I did. What is going on? What have you done?"

"I knew you did not come because of the sound. You came to hurt me and to save the boy; to stop me from doing what must be done…well it doesn't matter. You are dead!" He yelled, shoving at the priest. But when his hands failed to pass through him, he squealed, and stumbled back, his eyes glazed with fear.

"You are right as to why I came, old man," he snarled. "Wake him, or I kill you now."

To his surprise, the old man did not cower, but abruptly stood his ground. The terror in his eyes faded, to be replaced with something else, something Seth could not identify.

"I am not afraid of you, boy," he muttered. "And yet there are those of whom I am very much afraid. The only thing I fear from you is that you will try to stop me from doing what I must do to defend myself against them…" His tone changed and became wheedling. "You must not hinder me…you must not…"

Seth frowned. The look of terror that had warped the old man's face seemed permanent, and his words, for all their incoherency, sounded like the truth.

"Nevertheless, you must wake him," He repeated.

The old man did not answer him, did not even seem to hear the request. He turned away, to gaze out of a window at the bleak landscape.

"I do not fear you, boy. And yet I know everything of fear. What do you know of it? Have you lived alone with that sound for all these years, knowing what it means? I have. Fear was born into me. It was in my mother's blood and my father's and in my sisters'. There was too much magic and loneliness in this our home, and our people. And yet, as a child, they all feared and hated me. Even the servants, even the hounds who would snarl and snap before me. And yet did not my fears prove the greater? Did not they all die in such ways so that no suspicion fell upon me until the end? It was one against many, and I took no chances. They always thought that I would be the next to go, that I was small and weak and foolish."

The old man cackled, a harsh, terrible sound.

"But my sisters died as if strangled by their own hands, my mother sickened and languished, and my father seemed to throw himself from the towers top, and still I endured, until only the hounds were left. They hated me – even more that all the others – and they were starving by then, because there was no one left to feed them. Even the weakest of them could have torn out my throat, so I pretended to flee from them, and lured them into the cellar, and when they were all inside, I slipped out and locked the door. For days thereafter they howled and bayed at me, but I knew that I was finally safe. Gradually the howling grew less as they killed each other, but the survivors drew strength from the dead. They lasted a long time, until finally there was only one thin voice crying out. Every night I went to sleep telling myself that tomorrow there would be silence, but the howling never stopped. Eventually I went down to look, but there was nothing there but bones, and I told myself that soon it would be over.

"But the sound lived on, and grew louder. Then I knew that for all my cunning, I had been a fool. I may have destroyed their bodies, but their spirits lived on, and soon they would gain strength enough to return for me. I desperately studied my father's books of magic, but no spell could keep them away. Closer and closer they came, and it seemed I could hear my family's voices amongst the howling.

"One night, when the howling was louder than it had ever been before, a traveller came to this tower. There was a strange look in his eye, and I thanked the Gods that had sent him to me. I drugged him, forcing his spirit out of his body, and sent it to them. He bled and died, but his death satisfied them somewhat, for after that the howling went a long way away, and did not return for a long time. Afterwards, whenever they came too close, the Gods always sent a guest to keep them back. I learnt to bandage them, to make them last longer, and make the hunt more satisfying for the howling ones. But lately, they have grown greedy. They are less easy to satisfy, and are never far away. I wake in the night to hear them padding round the room, I feel their muzzles at my throat. I need more men to keep them back. He-"He said, pointing at the stiff body of the guide "- was nothing to them. But this one-" He said, gesturing towards Atem "- His spirit is strong. He will keep them back a long time."

It had grown dark by now, the only light coming from a guttering candle. Seth glared at where the old man sat, hunched over on a stool like an ungainly vulture, and then glanced over to where Atem lay, already looking like a corpse, and anger took hold of him. He spun and hurled himself at the old man. But the instant he brought his sword whistling down, the howling gushed back, the walls seeming to vibrate with it, bringing clouds of dust puffing from the dead things hanging from the ceiling.

He stopped the blade a hairsbreadth from the old man's throat, for the return of the sound forced him to ask the question; could anyone but the old man save Atem? Seth wavered between alternatives, then turned back to kneel by Atem's side. There was still no response. Then he heard the old man's voice, shaky and half drowned by the sound, but carrying a gloating note of confidence.

"Your friend is poised between life and death. If you are not careful, he may overbalance. Remove the bandages, and he will only die the quicker." Reading Seth's unspoken question he added "there is no antidote. But not all is lost. If he can stand against them until midnight, he may be able to return…"

Seth turned towards him then, and the old man must have read something in his merciless eyes for he said "my death by your hand will not save him. On the contrary, cheated of me, they will destroy him utterly."

"Perhaps not," Seth murmured, "but unless you offer me an alternative, I will take the chance and kill you right now."

"Stay your hand, boy. There is a way you can help him. I have more of the drug. I will give it to you, and you can fight against them together. You may even defeat them. But you must be quick. Look."

He pointed to the bandages covering Atem's left wrist. A red stain was slowly spreading. Seth shivered, and turned as the man pressed a small vial into his hand. It was a sickly purple, the colour corresponding to a dried trickle he had seen at the corner of Atem's mouth.

"Swiftly," the old man hissed. "Half should be enough. Now drink!"

But Seth didn't move, a plan forming in the back of his mind. The old man must have read it in his eyes, for he snatched at a dagger lying on a nearby table, and ran at him. Seth easily parried the old man's clumsy strike, and knocked the dagger from his hand. Panicking, he tried to knock the vial from his hand, but Seth held it up out of his reach, his other hand closing on the old man's throat.

"I will drink old man. Have no fear of that. But I will not drink alone."

The old man screamed and struggled convulsively.

"The sword! Use the sword! But do not let them get me! Please…"

Seth ignored him, and pinned him to the floor. The old man suddenly stopped struggling, and said with peculiar lucidity;

"No…it is poison I gave you. I gave the last of the drug to your friend. We shall both die horribly, and your friend will be doomed."

Seeing that Seth wasn't listening, he began to struggle again, withered arms flailing. He raked his long nails across the priest's face, but Seth was inexorable. He forced the old man's jaws open, and poured half the drug into his mouth. When he finally swallowed, it was like a death rattle. Seth climbed to his feet, sick with revulsion at what he had done. He had killed before, but had never inflicted such terror on another being. The look on the old mans face was grotesquely similar to that of a child under torture. He drank what was left in the bottle – it gave off a sickly smell, but tasted salty and a lot like blood.

The old man began to grope feebly for the dagger, and Seth almost let him reach it, but thought of the countless people he had sacrificed over the years, and kicked it out of his reach.

Gradually, the room filled with haze and began to swim. If was as if the sound was dissolving the walls, and then he felt something prying at his mind, tearing it apart.

And then there was nothing but darkness. And the howling.

To be continued

Yeah, I know. What the hell? Stay tuned for the gripping conclusion. Or don't.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

He was back in the desert. No…this one was different. There were no dunes. Just flat, featureless grey sand, stretching as far as he could see, unbroken but for the bones scattered randomly across its surface. And it was cold. So cold it almost burnt. His breath would have steamed in the air, if he'd been breathing. But he wasn't, he realised. The discovery would have been horrifying, but he was too numb to really feel anything except vague interest. He looked up, and wished he hadn't. The sky, if that's what it was, was a black, featureless void. No stars, just an infinite darkness that drained the soul and left him feeling hopeless, helpless and totally alone.

He forced himself to look away, and saw, maybe five hundred metres away, the source of the howling.

A figure (he assumed, correctly, that it was Atem) was running across the sand in random panicky circles, followed by the pack. They were blurry and indistinct, but there was no doubt that they were the cause of the sound. They were toying with Atem, snapping at his heels but making no concerted effort to bring him down. They knew that there was no escape.

Seth hissed in anger and drew his sword. He doubted it would be any good against ghosts, but it made him feel a little better. He was facing insurmountable odds in what was probably hell, but everything was okay because he had a pointy bit of metal.

Oh well.

Some of the spirits had noticed him now, and broke away from the pack. They loped towards him, cold fire burning in their dead eyes. He set his feet and prepared himself to meet their attack.

When he didn't run, they were plainly taken aback. Prey that wouldn't cooperate was no fun, and they apparently decided to simply kill him rather than toy with him first. They charged.

The first one was cocky, and unprepared for any sort of resistance. He easily dodged its snapping jaws, and then stabbed it in the neck, killing it. Hopefully. Though that would definitely have finished a normal dog, he doubted it would even slow these ones down.

The second leapt for his throat. He dodged again, and stabbed upwards, its own momentum driving the blade deeper into its belly.

The other dogs were more wary now, and hung back, intending to attack him as a group and overwhelm him with sheer force of numbers.

He heard a snarl from behind him and turned. The two he had just killed were getting back up. _So _he thought detachedly, _my theory was correct. _

He was totally surrounded. He could try to break out of the circle and run. Try and find a more defensible position or he could…

"Fuck strategy! Come on, you bastards!" He screamed, and charged the nearest dog. He landed a blow that almost severed its head, but before he could follow it up another leapt and hit him in the back, knocking him to the ground. He rolled and managed to turn under it, but his sword was trapped. He settled for punching it in the head. It fell off him and he brought his blade up, but before he could use it, another sank its teeth into his sword arm. He stuck his finger in its eye and it let go, but not before his arm had been torn open. The red arterial blood was surreally bright against the grey of the sand. He was so full of adrenalin that he hardly noticed the pain, but the damage was so bad he could barely hold the sword. He switched it to his left hand, just in time to meet the next attack.

The rest of the pack had noticed the fight now, and left Atem, coming to join their comrades. Good. At least one of them would survive the night.

He lost all track of time. It seemed like only a few minutes, yet also an eternity as he fought. Gradually, his sword became blunted, until he was more clubbing them than cutting. The handle became slick with his blood and his arm went numb, until the sword slipped from his grasp. He realised, with a sickly certainty, that the next attack would finish him. They hadn't managed to wound him fatally, but he was bleeding from dozens of minor wounds and blood loss and exhaustion had taken their toll. He was barely able to stand. He just hoped that he had bought Atem enough time. The old man had said they only had to hold out until midnight...The old man! Why hadn't he thought?

"Wait!" he called to the pack. "Is it really me you want? I brought you your master, little doggies. Go greet him."

They stopped, and stared at him, and then turned as one to the east. (Seth hadn't really got any idea which direction it was, nor even if there were directions in this place. He just arbitrarily decided they turned to the east.) Off in the distance, he could just make out a vaguely human form. The pack began to run towards it, and the figure turned to flee, but not fast enough. Seth was certain it couldn't outrun them.

Perhaps it was just the blood loss, but he was sure that, in amongst the running dogs, he could make out human forms.

He felt a vague sense of anticlimax. He had been prepared to die, and had fully expected to. But he hadn't. So now what?

Before he could give any serious consideration to the subject, he passed out.

* * *

"Seth…?"

_Ow…_

"Are you okay, Seth?"

_Shut up. _

"…Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you," Seth muttered. "Now would you please let me sleep?"

"…Oh, right. Sorry. But your wrist is bleeding kind of badly. Maybe you should do something."

Seth tried to keep his voice level. "I have travelled to another world, fought ghosts and sorcerers, saved your miserable life at great risk to my own, and you can't even put a fucking tourniquet on?"

"Uh…"

Seth sighed and opened his eyes. They were back in the tower. He sat up. And immediately wished that he hadn't. Wounds he had barely even noticed the night before began to ache with a vengeance. But Atem was watching him, and so, instead of whimpering and collapsing again as he so desperately felt like doing, he forced himself to his feet.

"Come here, pharaoh."

It was not much of a punch. Seth would have been the first to admit it. Nevertheless, given that he'd barely been able to stand, and it was with an arm that felt like it was about to fall off, it did the job. Atem was totally unprepared for the blow, and was knocked to the floor.

"What was that for?" he asked, too shocked to be angry.

"'What was it for?' Are you completely stupid!? Have you got any idea how much trouble you've caused me? Have you got any idea what you've put me through?" Seth almost screamed. "And yes, I do know that the penalty for striking the pharaoh is death, but believe me, it was worth it!"

Seth turned away, and began rummaging through the old man's things, searching for something he could use to stem the blood flow from his injured wrist. Hitting Atem had only served to exacerbate it, but he was past caring.

"Still…you came to save me…" Atem murmured, his voice filled with disbelief. "I thought you hated me…"

"I do. But saving you is my job. Besides, if I turned up at the palace without you, they'd all assume that I killed you, and have me put to death. It's not like I had a choice in the matter." Seth was a good liar. So good he almost convinced himself sometimes.

"Well…thank you anyway."

Seth found a grubby roll of bandages, and began wrapping them around his arm. He was not much of a doctor, and trying to bandage one handed, while on the verge of collapse is not an easy thing to do, so, on the whole, he didn't do a particularly good job.

"Do you want me to help?" Seth wordlessly held out his arm. Atem's attempt was not really any better than Seth's, but then pharaohs don't tend to have a lot of experience in such matters. Seth tactfully didnt comment.

"Now what?" Atem asked.

"You're the divine embodiment of a living god. You tell me."

"Should we do…something with him?" Atem asked, indicating the corpse of the old man. The spirits had not been gentle. It was barely recognisable as human.

"Meh. You do what you like. I'm going back to sleep."

"…On the floor…?"

"Yup."

"…Well…I'll go get the horses then…"

"Fine. But watch out for Sekhmet. She's dangerous."

"She's just a horse…"

"That's what I said when I first bought her. But there's a reason she's named after the bringer of war and pestilence."

"Right…well…see you in a bit…"

Seth lay back and looked up at the truly dead things that hung above him. And smiled.

An End

Whew. Was that weird or was that weird? The first and last chapters were mostly my own, though the second stole pretty directly from the original story. How lazy of me. Should I write a series of these stories, or should I bury my laptop at the crossroads with a stake through its motherboard and never speak of this again? You have the power to decide, my loyal reviewers.


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